Weihnachtsgeschenk aus Deutschland

Heute kam ein Geschenk aus Deutschland mit der Post. Ich bin mir nicht genau sicher, was ich getan habe (oder vielleicht hab’ Ich eben gar nichts getan), um es zu verdienen, aber wünsche euch allen ein sehr frohes Weihnachtsfest. Ich weiss’ nicht wie Ich mich bedanken soll, und hoffe dass es kein Plan ist, um mich für die nächsten 2 monate wach zu halten.



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Despite all the years, receiving my Amazon order always summons the same excitement.

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Err in the direction of kindness

Now, one useful thing you can do with an old person, in addition to borrowing money from them, or asking them to do one of their old-time “dances,” so you can watch, while laughing, is ask: “Looking back, what do you regret?” And they’ll tell you. Sometimes, as you know, they’ll tell you even if you haven’t asked. Sometimes, even when you’ve specifically requested they not tell you, they’ll tell you.

George Saunders’s Advice to Graduates

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The surly critic

Short stories are not parables or wise sayings, and cannot be fragments; we ask them for the pleasures of closure.

Harold Bloom — How to Read and Why


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An artist cannot speak about his art any more than a plant can discuss horticulture.


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The familiarity of odd meters

“It’s a simple 7/8″. It was all it took to make me feel like a complete idiot.

I had been happily banging on my drumkit for a while by then, but had never had the experience of playing with musicians I didn’t know from anywhere. All the other projects started for reasons that hadn’t immediately to do with the technicalities of the music being played, and in not one of them did such indications ever come up. There had never been discussions about the instruments themselves, either. No “tone” and “texture” discussion of a particular model of drumkit, no “brilliance” of this or that brand of cymbals. None of that. It mostly boiled down to “It’s shiny. It’s loud. I like. Can I bang it now?”.

This was different. I had been brought in at the last minute to replace the usual drummer (spontaneous self-combustion? I’ll never know). There were expectations; a song was to be rehearsed and played, there was no time to hang around having drinks and discuss the music each one likes, no time to wait for the stars to align properly for us all to play it. There were notes and breaks and bridges. And a 7/8 meter which, to someone whose counting skills were limited to what everyone knows about drum playing, appeared to be a monumental, unsurmountable hurdle. Despite not remembering the song at all, I remember the sensation of panic, as if it were yesterday.


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